


Of Glass and Gold

by smudgesofink



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Episode 11 Coda, Hurt/Comfort, In which Yuuri breaks, M/M, Panic Attacks, and Victor helps put him back together again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 16:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8923861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smudgesofink/pseuds/smudgesofink
Summary: “Just hear me out,” Yuuri presses. He can feel heat burning behind his eyes and he grits his teeth, fighting back the tears. If he cries now, Victor will be too occupied with comforting him to actually pay attention to what he’s saying. “I want you to be happy.”“I am,” Victor grounds out, confused and hurt. “I’m happy with you. What even gave you the idea that I’m not?"“Because I’m never going to win gold!” Yuuri shouts. His words echo like a gunshot, and the silence that follows it is haunting.(In which Victor is gold--magnificent, breathtaking, brilliant--and Yuuri is glass--transparent, thin, breakable.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Из стекла и золота](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9579602) by [helenbeauty01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helenbeauty01/pseuds/helenbeauty01)



> Can you hear, my heart bREAKING---
> 
> (Episode 11 is NOT okay. IT ISN'T OKAY.)

The night after the short program of the Grand Prix Final is quiet. Soft and blurry with only the dim lights turned on in their hotel room.

It’s beautiful.

Mesmerizing.

(Sad.)

From across him, Victor is on the window seat, wrapped up in a cotton-white bathrobe and fresh from the shower. His back is pressed flush against the window, up against where Yuuri can see the pretty city lights reflecting off the glass and Yuuri worries a little. He wants to tell Victor not to lean back too hard. He wants to tell Victor not to push the glass. It might break, and then Victor will get himself hurt, he’ll fall right through—

“By the way, Yuuri,” Victor prompts, cutting into the quiet that has settled in between them, looking at him with blue eyes as clear as the morning sky and a smile as pristine as the glass he’s leaning against. Yuuri’s hand trembles around the grip on his phone. Victor is amazing, utterly incredible and beautiful in all the possible ways. He burns bright, like the summer sun in Hasetsu, like the arena lights that blind Yuuri whenever he skates, like the glint of a gold medal Yuuri has always longed to have.

Victor reminds him of gold. Magnificent. Breathtaking. Brilliant.

Unreachable.

(Yuuri is a fool for ever thinking he can keep Victor all to himself.)

Victor is grinning softly, oblivious to the chaos in Yuuri’s mind. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

Yuuri takes a shallow breath, glancing up. He smiles. “Right.”

Whereas Victor is gold, Yuuri feels a little like glass.

Transparent. Thin. Smudged and fogged up, most of the time.

Breakable.

His fingers curl in deeper into the flesh of his palm. Yuuri composes himself and takes his time, repeats the words in his head once, twice, three times, as many times as it takes until the sting of it fades away. Or maybe until Yuuri’s too numb from the pain to feel anything. “After the final, let’s end this.”

There’s a moment of deafening silence.

Victor’s smile falls off, brilliance fading away the same way gold medals get tarnished over time.

“End?” He echoes with a voice that’s much too soft and blinks slowly, as if the word doesn’t make sense at all. “End what? I don’t understand, Yuuri.” Victor looks at him, lost and uncertain, asking for an explanation. His lips twitch into a nervous grin and Victor scoots forward in his seat, trying to peer at Yuuri carefully. He looks like he’s asking Yuuri not to mean what Victor thinks the words mean. “You mean skating, perhaps? Are you planning to retire after this? That’s okay.”

Yuuri swallows painfully, breath stuttering. “Yes,” he says, and then, “No.” Yuuri shakes his head and looks down at the ring Victor gave him barely a day ago, back when both of them thought everything would turn out the way they wanted it to. Yuuri wonders if at the end of this night, he can at least ask Victor if he can keep it, even just as a memento. A reminder of what he almost could’ve had but lost. “Not just skating,” Yuuri says, and then gestures between the two of them. “I want to end this. Us.”

Victor’s breath escapes him in a rush. “What?”

Yuuri takes a second to organize his thoughts. It’s a little harder to talk when it feels like he’s bleeding from the inside.

His throat feels tight, like it’s closing in on itself so the words can’t be said aloud and he has to force them out. Yuuri struggles through, nonetheless, plastering a weak smile into his face as he looks up at Victor again. “After the Grand Prix Finals, let’s go on our separate ways,” He says. His voice sounds as if it’s detached from him. The air inside their room burns cold enough to hurt his lungs. “I’ll announce my retirement after the event. I’ll go back to Japan, and you can go back home to Russia, maybe skate again—”

“Yuuri,” Victor interrupts. There’s a furrow between his brows and a worried grimace in place of his usual smile. “Where is this coming from? Talk to me—”

“I am talking to you,” Yuuri insists. “We both know it was going to end someday. I’m grateful for everything you’ve given and shared with me, for helping me get to where I am now but—”

“Did I do something wrong? Are you upset—”

“—I know this isn’t going to work out anymore. We have to stop this. You still have at least a season left in you and I already know you’ll do amazing in it. You belong on the ice, Victor, not on the sidelines watching—”

“—with me?” Victor isn’t listening. He’s relentless, stubborn, grief scribbled all over his face. “Is it my coaching strategies again? Did I say anything that hurt you?” He stares at Yuuri in helpless confusion and begs with his eyes, and Yuuri wants to scream, wants to shout at him that this isn’t his fault. Yuuri is fixing his mistakes, not punishing him, can’t Victor see that? Yuuri is the one ruining everything, he’s the one who’s undeserving of all this. Not Victor. Never Victor. “Tell me what I did. Tell me what brought this on. Whatever it is, we can talk it through, we can fix it—”

“There’s nothing _to_ fix—”

“Yuuri—”

“Just hear me out,” Yuuri presses. He can feel heat burning behind his eyes and he grits his teeth, fighting back the tears. If he cries now, Victor will be too occupied with comforting him to actually pay attention to what he’s saying. “I want you to be happy.”

“I _am,_ ” Victor grounds out, confused and hurt. “I’m happy with you,” He says, and Yuuri almost scoffs, high and hysterical. He’s seen how Victor watched all the other performances with awe and intrigue in his eyes, how disappointed he had looked previously right after Yuuri’s short program—Victor is just too forgiving of him to ever honestly tell Yuuri he isn’t happy. “What even gave you the idea that I’m not?”

“Because I’m never going to win gold!” Yuuri shouts.

His words echo like a gunshot, and the silence that follows it is haunting. Yuuri is distractedly aware of Victor’s wide eyes on him; after all, he’s never had Yuuri scream at him again since China Cup.

Yuuri remembers.

He remembers every angle of Victor’s face, remembers all the things Victor does, all his silly quirks and strengths and flaws that make him perfect. But most of all, Yuuri remembers every word that leaves Victor’s grinning mouth.

_This is an engagement ring. We’ll get married once Yuuri gets a gold medal._

He’s never going to.

He’s not good enough, Yuuri knows this.

No amount of effort and hard work in his Free Skate will be enough to salvage his disaster of a score in his Short Program. He knows Victor knows this as well.

(A part of him wonders whether Victor regrets his words now.)

Yuuri heaves difficult breaths, trying to get his shaking under control, trying to keep his voice from cracking pathetically and himself from falling apart like grains of sand, slipping between his fingers. He dutifully ignores the hurt blue eyes watching him, and wills himself to say, “I’m not going to win gold in the Final. You and I both know that. I blew my last chance at getting a gold medal when I failed to deliver a good Eros performance.”

“Is that what this is about?” Victor asks, pained with realization, “Yuuri, you did your best—”

“And it still wasn’t enough,” Yuuri snaps, “Even with you as my coach, it wasn’t—I couldn’t—”

_It wasn’t good enough. I couldn’t even prove to them that I deserve you. All your effort to help me reach the top, and I couldn’t even be strong enough to get to the finish line._

_I’m dragging you down with me._

_I’m making you miserable._

Yuuri shakes his head, violently blinking away the blurriness from his eyes, and grips the fabric of his track pants tighter. His knuckles are losing color. His throat is dry, and it hurts to breathe. The tremors going through his body feel like landslides, threatening to shake him until he’s crumbling down and bury him alive. _No,_ Yuuri thinks to himself, _no, no, no, I can’t do this in front of Victor._

“Yuuri,” Victor calls, and he sounds distant, like Yuuri’s underwater and drowning and Victor is too far away to get to him in time, “Yuuri, you’re hyperventilating. _Solnyshko_ , you have to—”

Fuck, fuck, _fuck, he’s breaking apart._

It’s too cold, there’s no air inside the room, and he can’t breathe, can’t breathe, _can’t breathe, oh god—_

“S-Sorry,” Yuuri gasps out in haste, standing up from the bed and stumbling away, humiliated tears taking over his vision, “I c-can’t—can’t do t-this.” Victor stands up with him on reflex, terror written in his face and _dammit_ , Yuuri was supposed to make everything better but he only keeps making things worse, he’s such a failure, such a failure, such a—

“Yuuri, let me help you,” Victor pleads and reaches for him, hands outstretched to catch his elbow but Yuuri flinches away before he can.

Victor freezes, stricken. His blue eyes are wide, glassy where there are unshed tears pooling at the edges of his eyelids. Yuuri is horrified to see his worst nightmare coming alive before his very eyes as Victor’s face crumples into a picture of heartbreaking desperation. “Yuuri?”

The thing about glass is that no matter how solid it is, no matter how crystal clear it’s been cut, no matter how beautiful it may look, if you drop it hard enough, it breaks. Yuuri’s heart shatters, the sound of it ringing in his ears, and becomes nothing more than a mess of glass shards digging into him and cutting him open. _Don’t cry, Victor, please don’t cry,_ Yuuri wants to say but all that comes out is a strangled noise and a pathetic, “D-Don’t.”

Tears slide down the side of Victor’s face.

Yuuri turns around and scrambles to get away, to escape, tripping over his own two feet towards the bathroom. He slams the door behind him before Victor can snap out of his stupor and Yuuri collapses down to the cold tiles, a disaster of a human being, all trembling limbs and clammy skin, violent gasps wrenching themselves out of his throat as he presses his eyes shut and lets the tears burn a hot trail on his cheeks, tucking his head between his legs, and tries so desperately to breathe _._

 _I messed up,_ Yuuri’s harsh exhale stutters around a sob, _I messed up again._

There are insistent knocks banging on the other side of the door all of a sudden, and they sound like explosions in his ears. “Yuuri, let me in,” Victor demands, the sound muffled and distorted by the wood of the door—or maybe that’s simply his voice shaking in tremendous worry and thick with an emotion Yuuri can’t quite name, “Yuuri, please, let me help, open the door, you might faint—”

He doesn’t want Victor to see him like this.

Yuuri places his quivering hands over them to block out the noise, to drown out Victor’s pleas and the voices screaming in his head, and swallows back down his wet gasps and hiccups. Shame feels like a cold, thick lump blocking his throat and he can’t breathe properly over it. “L-Leave!” Yuuri gasps out, lying through clenched teeth, and blinks against the unending tears that prickle in his eyes, breathing hitching awfully. “M’f-f-fine!”

Outside, Victor sucks in a broken inhale, begging in distraught, “ _Solnyshko,_ please,” and Yuuri chokes on a sob, curling into himself further.

The world is a watery blur and he’s suffocating, there’s too much oxygen but not enough at the same time, and everything around him is spinning. His lungs are on fire, his shaking grip on his hair painfully tight. Nothing is okay. He’s broken, _broken—_ Yuuri is nothing more than broken glass that can’t be pieced back together, and all he’s managed to do in his attempt to fix his mess is to hurt Victor.

Oh god, Victor.

He made Victor _cry._

Yuuri keeps on breaking everything he touches.

His hyperventilation is getting worse, ragged wheezes ripping themselves out of his dry mouth, and his chest hurts, somehow managing to feel heavy and hollow all at once. Every breath feels like jagged glass pieces slicing against the soft flesh of his throat, agonizing and raw. Yuuri’s lips are tingling, numbed from sensation, his head aches terribly, and he can’t feel his fingertips anymore.

There’s broken glass everywhere, and Yuuri’s right in the middle of the disaster.

He doesn’t know how long he sits on the icy tiles, choking on air, but it stretches on for what seems like an eternity of suffering alone, painful and humiliating. Yuuri hasn’t had a full-blown panic attack since his disgraceful loss at last year’s GPF and if he weren’t having trouble breathing, Yuuri thinks he would have laughed at the agonizingly ironic déjà vu. A year has passed and nothing has changed about him at all.

Yurio had been right all along. He was disgusting and _pathetic—_

The knob clicks and then the door swings wide open as Victor bursts in, startling Yuuri so much that his frantic gasps stop for a full second. “V-Vic—” Yuuri hiccups breathlessly around the word, petrified and ashamed as his blurry gaze catches the man approaching, and Yuuri tries valiantly to hide his blotchy face and stifle his sobs.

For a terrifying moment, Yuuri dreads the thought of Victor yanking his hands away and forcing Yuuri to look at him in the eyes and explain himself. Yuuri won’t be able to handle it, he’d rather die than face Victor now—

But instead, something thick and warm is draped across his shoulders and pulled tight around him protectively, and then there are headphones being settled over his ears, blessedly silencing the ringing white noise that’s been driving Yuuri insane. Yuuri’s head snaps up in surprise. There are worried ocean eyes staring at him, shiny and nervous, but Victor offers a weak smile nonetheless, soldiering on despite the situation and Yuuri barely holds back another sob. _You should be angry,_ Yuuri thinks, _you should be angry with me._ “V-Victor,” He croaks out, sniffling hideously. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Victor shushes, so gentle and tender that Yuuri’s heart breaks all over again. He doesn’t deserve any of this. “It’s okay, _solnyshko_ , just breathe.”

“It’s n-not—” _It’s not okay. I messed up again. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—_

“We can talk later. But for now, I’m going to play something for you,” Victor informs him, pressing the screen of his phone where the headphones are plugged into, and immediately the first soft strings of an acoustic guitar set over a rhythmic beat fills his ears and lulls Yuuri into breathing slower, the air in his throat faltering before being expelled at once in a long rush of exhale.

“There we go,” Victor breathes out, and Yuuri’s heart squeezes tightly when Victor leans in to press a kiss on his clammy forehead, “that’s it. Deep, slow breaths, Yuuri.”

Yuuri swallows with effort, “Victor.”

“Shh, I’m right here.”

It’s an English song; a woman sings the first few lines in a mellow whisper, comforting even when melancholic. After a few more lines, a man joins in, voice hushed and low. Yuuri can’t bring himself to properly absorb the words but he breathes in and out and follows the slow patterned beat of the music, unconsciously pressing forward when a warm palm cups his cheek, a careful thumb brushing away the wet tracks of his tears.

They bask in the silence as the song plays and reaches its end and then loops back to the start. Victor keeps his hands on Yuuri’s face, mouth pressed against his temple. Yuuri keeps on breathing.

After the third loop, Yuuri shuffles closer, reaching out automatically and sighs the minute Victor captures his cold hand, holding it securely in his grip. “Here, here,” Victor whispers, guiding Yuuri’s palm until it’s flat against Victor’s chest and Yuuri can feel his steady heartbeat, thrumming underneath his touch. At once, tension flees away from his shoulders and Yuuri slumps even further, taking in a smooth, even breath for the first time. Victor murmurs something in Russian, quiet and relieved. Yuuri closes his eyes, tired all of a sudden, and swallows once more, wincing at the roughness of his throat. His mouth feels desert-dry.

There are no more explosions of shattering glass in his ears. Only a sad melody, and the sounds of his ragged breaths and Victor’s murmured reassurances.

And Yuuri is tired.

“Can I,” Victor starts in a soft whisper, hesitant, “can I hold you?”

Yuuri gives a jerky nod, tears pooling in his eyes again even when they’re closed. He recalls the horrible way he recoiled away from Victor’s touch earlier; no doubt Victor remembers it, too.

They don’t say a word between them as Victor moves in his place, taking the blanket off of Yuuri’s back just a second as he positions himself behind Yuuri with his chin tucked on one shoulder, and then throws thick sheet over both of them again. A pair of arms wound around his torso, careful and familiar. Yuuri sniffles quietly. Victor smooths a hand over his chest and murmurs, “Hold this for me.”

Yuuri raises his head just a fraction to peek at the water bottle Victor is offering him before he timidly reaches for it, trembling fingers wrapping around the smooth plastic. Though the rise and fall of his chest is still too erratic for comfort, the cotton haze in his head is lessening and it’s easier to focus now. Victor takes a hold of the bottle as well, his warm hand covering Yuuri’s shaky one, as he uncaps it and asks, “Would you like to drink?”

Yuuri swallows a hiccup, nodding. He lets Victor guide him through the motions, closing his red-rimmed eyes in relief once cool water floods his parched mouth and alleviates the rawness of his throat. When he opens his eyes, Yuuri presses the phone and stops the song. The sudden quiet is unnerving but not unexpected.

“Yuuri,” Victor shifts behind him, silver hair brushing against Yuuri’s cheekbone. “Are you okay?”

He isn’t.

But Yuuri also isn’t suffocating anymore, and the world has long since stopped moving. Yuuri dares to clear his throat. “Yeah,” he rasps, voice sounding like it’s been dragged over miles of rough gravel, “Better now.”

“Good,” Victor sighs. His entire body seems to sag in relief, and Yuuri takes the added weight with an ease developed over months of practice with Victor draping himself all over him. “I was really worried, _solnyshko_.”

The resulting feeling of guilt is heavy in Yuuri’s chest. “Sorry,” he says.

Victor only hugs him tighter.

They slip back into silence, breathing in sync, until Yuuri whispers, “What does a gold medal feel like?”

As soon as the question slips past his lips, Yuuri freezes. Victor is a fifth-time consecutive GPF gold medalist and Yuuri is the biggest fool, asking him an embarrassing question that sounds like it came from a reporter. For an awful moment, Yuuri dreads spiraling back into another panic attack out of pure mortification but Victor’s fingers are firm and grounding where they are tracing mindless patterns on Yuuri’s chest, and the warm weight bearing down on his back is enough to keep him from hyperventilating again. Yuuri heaves a quivering exhale, shaking his head. “Sorry,” he stutters as his face burns, “sorry, you don’t have to answer that—”

“It’s fine,” Victor says, pressing a kiss on Yuuri’s cheek. The building anxiety within him deflates like a popped balloon. “Do you really want to know?”

Yuuri hesitates, biting his lip. “Yes,” he says, and Yuuri braces himself for the answer.

He expects Victor to describe an overwhelming feeling of happiness.

He expects Victor to say that winning gold is unlike anything he’s ever felt before, and that Yuuri isn’t wrong to be intimidated but that overcoming the fear is worth reaching the top.

“What does a gold medal feel like, Victor?”

_It’s wonderful._

_Incredible._

_Exhilarating._

Victor takes a deep breath, burrowing his head further into the meat of Yuuri’s shoulder, and whispers, “Lonely.”

Just like that, Yuuri’s mind blanks. _Oh._

“It feels cold. And heavy. Like a noose around your neck,” Victor continues, and from where Yuuri is looking down at Victor’s hands on his chest, he sees the slightest tremble of pale fingers, “and everyone’s watching, waiting for you to fall down and strangle yourself.”

“Victor, I—,” Yuuri starts only to stop, at a loss for words. All this time, he had thought Victor missed winning.

“When you’re on top of the world, there’s nowhere else to go but down.” Victor chuckles, and it’s a weak huff that makes Yuuri’s heart ache. “I’ve been winning gold for as long as I can remember. Somewhere along the way, I’ve forgotten it wasn’t normal to feel suffocated. I think I’ve been at the top way too long, _solnyshko,_ ” he admits, “I didn’t know it was possible not to be lonely until I met you.”

Yuuri’s breath hitches. _What?_

“At the banquet, when I met you properly,” Victor murmurs without pause, kissing Yuuri’s shoulder, “that was the first time I’ve felt free. I think I fell in love with you right there. Dancing and laughing with you made me feel alive, and I realized there was so much more to my life than just skating and winning gold. When you kissed me back during the China Cup, I felt so happy I would’ve traded all my medals if it meant I could kiss you longer.” Victor pulls back, just so he can rest his forehead on Yuuri’s nape. Yuuri thins his lips, trying not to cry again. “These previous months I’ve spent with you are the happiest I’ve been, Yuuri. For so long, I didn’t know what it meant to live. I don’t know how to thank you for teaching me.”

“You don’t—that’s not,” Yuuri shakes his head helplessly as his tired eyes well up with tears, “You don’t have to thank me for anything. I was being selfish, keeping you to myself.”

“Were you?” Victor echoes. He sounds defeated. “What if I wanted to be kept?”

Yuuri shuts his eyes. “Victor—”

“Yuuri,” Victor breathes out, his voice wavering for the first time tonight, “I’m not going to leave you if you don’t win, _solnyshko._ I don’t want a gold medal. I want you.” He clutches at Yuuri with a desperation Yuuri has yet to witness from him, arms holding him with no intention of letting go. Yuuri feels the intensity of Victor’s adoration crashing into him like a tidal wave, drowning him alive. “I want you, and I want living in Japan with the onsen with your parents and your sister. I want to spend my mornings waking up next to you and kissing you awake. I want to spend my days with you right beside me as we walk Makkachin down the beach. I want to spend my nights sleeping beside you.”

“Victor.”

“I want to travel the world with you, to stay at home with you, to fall deeper in love with you every single day.”

“Victor.”

“I want to marry you,” Victor rasps, choking on his words, and Yuuri belatedly realizes he’s crying, “I want to adopt more dogs with you. I want to coach skaters with you. I want to have a family with you.”

“ _Victor._ ”

“They can have the gold medal. They can have my record. I don’t want it.” Victor says stubbornly, embracing Yuuri impossibly closer. His tears are seeping into the fabric of Yuuri’s shirt. “I only want you, Yuuri, and all that you’re willing to share with me.”

“ _Victor_ ,” Yuuri sobs. He cries and cries and cries, sobbing harder than he had ever done before, shoulders shaking inside Victor’s hold because _god, how is it possible to love someone so much that it hurts?_ Yuuri twists inside the hug, latching on to Victor as soon as he faces him and buries his head on the crook of Victor’s neck. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes brokenly, unable to say anything else. After what Victor said, none of it seems enough. “I’m so sorry.”

“If you want to break up with me,” Victor’s breath hitches, hiccupping, and Yuuri clings to him even more, “do it because you want to. Not because you think it’s what I would’ve wanted.”

“I don’t want to,” Yuuri chokes out. “I don’t want to, Victor, _I love you, I’m sorry._ ”

“I love you,” Victor echoes back desperately. Hands tilt Yuuri’s messy face up until his bloodshot brown eyes are staring deep into Victor’s sore blue ones, and Victor kisses him soft and needy, uncaring of the way he probably tastes like tears. “I love you, Yuuri.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri apologizes again, and Victor shakes his head.

“I love you.”

“I’m sorry—”

“I love you,” Victor repeats, again and again, saying it in between tender kisses until Yuuri is melting against him, soft and pliant and exhausted, and the broken glass is nowhere to be found. Yuuri stops wondering about gold and kisses back. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Yuuri whispers.

He doesn’t quite feel so breakable anymore. Doesn’t quite feel like glass.

“I love you.”

Victor doesn’t feel like gold.

He feels real, flesh and skin and warmth, and when Yuuri kisses him, he tastes like love.

“I love you.”

Yuuri takes a deep breath.

He can breathe easily again.

 

.  


.

  
.

 

(Later, when they’re on the bed and half-asleep, Yuuri turns to Victor with sleepy curiosity. “How did you open the door to the bathroom? I thought I had it locked.”

“Oh,” Victor blinks down at him, “I picked it with a card.” As if on cue, Victor swipes the aforementioned credit card from the bedside table, bent horribly at the middle and looking chewed at the edges. Victor squints. “I may have to replace it.”

The sight of the card is too ridiculous; Yuuri giggles, and then breaks into a full-bodied laugh, much too loud in the darkness of their hotel room. He feels Victor’s grin against his forehead.

“Sleep, _solnyshko_ ,” Victor laughs, “I’ll teach you how to do it in the morning.”)

 

**Author's Note:**

> (It's 1 AM here and I'm crying over these ice children. Let me live.) I feel like writing Yuuri having panic attacks has been a long time coming, tbh. This was inspired (hah, inspired, I say, as I relate it to the most depressing thing ever) from when I had a terrible panic attack in school and I had to lock myself inside a restroom cubicle for the better half of an hour. Thankfully in this fic, Yuuri has Victor to help him calm down.
> 
> (P.S. The song Yuuri listens to in the fic is "Dust to Dust" by The Civil Wars)


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